


before it can be considered a gem

by hito



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Confusion, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, M/M, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles loves St. Patrick's Day. He just wishes he could remember it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m Scottish!” Scott protests, trying to peel Trent Wilson off his back. “I mean, my name is Scottish, not Irish!” 

He’s wearing a Nessie tshirt and everything, poor guy. It’s the one night of the year Stiles is grateful for his surname—it isn’t linked to any so-called holidays that are likely to lead to his dad having to arrest him for drunk and disorderly or public affray, which would definitely lead to disinheritance, if there were anything to inherit, and possibly to his dad disowning him and disavowing all knowledge of where Stiles might’ve picked up that little alcohol problem from. 

Not that Stiles has an alcohol problem. He doesn’t know anybody who does. 

Stiles loves St. Patrick’s Day. 

He ignores Trent and his friends trying to pour green beer into Scott’s mouth—and what is Scott even complaining about, he can’t get drunk, so he has no excuse for being such a priss about it anymore—and wanders up to Jackson’s bar. 

Jackson’s parents have an actual _bar_ , with bottles of spirits hanging up behind it and everything, and okay, those are mostly empty by now, and people have moved onto the warm beer they brought with them, but Stiles is an admirer of conspicuous consumption when it’s so _cool_ , okay? 

Jackson is standing at the bar, crushing empty beer cans and throwing them into a trashbag. 

Stiles looks at what’s left and decides he’s going to make himself a Belfast Bomber. 

“Hennessy’s,” Jackson says. 

“Huh?” Stiles asks, and Jackson snatches his shot glass away to add something from one of the hanging bottles. 

“Want one?” Stiles asks. 

“My life is so depressing,” Jackson says, sweeping all the plastic cups on the bar into the bag. “I don’t know why I got out of bed today.” 

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks. “Oh. Yeah, that’s pretty bad. Although you could have just—not thrown a party. Just throwing it out there.” 

Jackson dumps his bag at Stiles’ feet and wanders off muttering something about Stiles’ lack of understanding of the social graces, and total loserhood, and Stiles knocks back his drink. 

There’s still some Guinness in the can, so he brings it with him when he wanders towards Scott. 

Lydia intercepts him. 

“Derek’s here,” she says. “I’m not dealing.” 

And she turns him around and shoves him into the crowd, and when he staggers out the other side Derek is standing in front of him scowling. 

“Hi!” Stiles says happily. “I didn’t know you were coming!” 

He goes in for a hug, but it gets weird when he’s been doing it for a while and Derek isn’t hugging him back. 

“Are you not having a good time?” Stiles asks, concerned. 

“Why are you all here?” Derek asks. 

Stiles waves around, because obviously. 

“Uh,” he says. “Why are you here if you’re just going to be a grumpypuss? You’re worse than Jackson!” 

“Why aren’t you at the meeting,” Derek growls. 

“Oh, dude,” Stiles says, laughing. “Tonight?” 

“It’s Saturday.” 

“Why do we have to have meetings on Saturday anyway? It’s the _worst_ night. What’s wrong with Wednesday? Nobody ever has anything to do on Wednesday!” 

“Meetings are on Saturday. Why is nobody _there_?” 

Stiles waves his hand around again, and he almost hits Derek in the face, but Derek is fast, and soft and warm, or his hands are anyway, and then Stiles buries his face in Derek’s chest, just to check. 

After a minute, Derek pulls him off and holds him away. 

“It’s St. Patrick’s Day!” Stiles says, laughing. “You’re just going to have to reschedule. But not tomorrow, okay? Because nobody—well, everybody else will be fine, but I will not be fine, it is my aim for the night not to be fine, it is my _goal_ to still be drunk by noon tomorrow.” 

“Aiming high,” Derek says. 

“Yup,” Stiles says, and finishes his can, before throwing it in Jackson’s general direction. “I need another drink. You should get me a drink.” 

“It’s a houseparty,” Derek says. “Get your own.” 

“No,” Stiles says, with extreme dignity, and tugs on Derek’s arm until Derek comes back over to the bar with him. 

“A sidecar, please,” Stiles says, and Derek picks a can out of the bag on the ground and deposits it in front of Stiles. 

“I don’t know whose this is,” Stiles says happily. “I finished mine. Thank you, kind sir!” 

Derek holds him up while he drinks it, he thinks, but then he forgets why Derek’s body is so close to his, why he’s pressed between the wooden bar and the hard, warm line of Derek behind him, and just leans back into it, throwing his arm up around Derek’s neck and knocking the remainder of his drink to the floor. 

“What—“ Derek says, annoyed, eyes following the drink to the ground, but then Stiles turns in his arms, and suddenly it feels like they’re so much closer, not close enough, and it’s nice, it’s good, and Stiles wants it so much. 

His hand is already on the back of Derek’s neck, so it’s no trouble to let the other one join it there, to link his arms around Derek’s neck and pull him down, so Stiles can kiss him, and Stiles does realise he’s drunk, okay, but Stiles is an awesome drunk kisser, okay, where do you think he got all his practice? 

Derek is better at it, though, keeping their mouths together, not sliding off somewhere else that doesn’t feel as good, and how is Derek so much better at this than Stiles is, than anyone else Stiles has ever kissed before? But Stiles is licking into Derek’s mouth, licking at his tongue and slipping his hands below the waistband of Derek’s jeans to get at his warm skin, and it’s okay, because Stiles can be filthy when he’s drunk, that’s fine, and he’s rubbing up against Derek’s hard body and laughing into his mouth when Derek pulls away and that’s okay too. 

Derek smiles down at him, looking slightly puzzled, but Derek’s always like that, Derek doesn’t understand anything, doesn’t really know how the world works outside pack. 

“You owe me another drink,” Stiles says, kissing Derek’s throat. 

Derek makes him another Belfast Bomber, and that’s the last thing Stiles remembers, so he supposes he shouldn’t really be surprised when he wakes up beside Derek the next morning, totally naked. 

He is, though.


	2. Chapter 2

The arm thrown over him tightens when he squirms around, and that’s a sign, right? That has to be a sign. 

“Hey!” Stiles pokes at Derek until his eyes flicker open, hazy and distant in the seconds before he wakes properly. 

“Stiles,” Derek says. 

“That’s me,” Stiles says, trying not to look Derek up and down too obviously, but come on, the guy is gorgeous and half-naked, and if he didn’t want Stiles checking him out he would remove his arm, right? 

_Maybe he hasn’t noticed, maybe he’s just embarrassed_ , Stiles thinks, but then he catches the quick flick of Derek’s eyes down to his own bare chest and lets himself relax. 

Sleep-rumpled is a good look for Derek, creases on his cheek from the pillow, hair tousled in a way that doesn’t look as if it took the better part of an hour and the entire contents of Lydia’s bathroom cabinet to achieve. It looks better this way. 

Stiles reaches out to tug on a strand of hair, and Derek makes a small, surprised noise in his throat. 

“So,” Stiles says. That’s his entire sentence, all he’s got, because although he’s never actually been in this situation before, he’s pretty sure there’s no good way to ask, _So, what happened last night_? 

“Yeah,” Derek replies. 

“Right,” Stiles says knowingly. 

“So,” Derek says, and it sounds like it’s the start of something more, but Stiles has other things on his mind. 

He grabs Derek’s chin and leans forward to kiss him. 

It’s different with the sunshine spilling across the bed like this. Stubble scratches at his cheeks, and there’s enough of it that Derek must have had it last night, must have come to Jackson’s party without even shaving, probably in jeans and a tshirt like always. He thinks he remembers that, Derek glaring down at him when Stiles tried to force a brightly-coloured hat onto his head in retribution for wearing his usual black uniform to a St. Patrick’s day party. 

_Arrogant doucheface_ , Stiles thinks, and he tells himself it isn’t affectionate. 

Derek makes that sound again, and rolls onto Stiles, heavy over him in the bed. 

Stiles is naked, but Derek is still wearing his boxers. It’s easier when Derek is taking charge, because Stiles doesn’t have to worry about the kissing, about getting that done right; he can let his hands slide down Derek’s warm, broad back to those annoying, useless boxer-briefs, slide his fingers beneath the elastic without much idea what to do there, aside from get them off, get them gone. 

Derek stops kissing him when he pulls at them, though, draws back to look at him and says, “I’m hungry.” 

“Huh,” Stiles says. “I’m hungry too. We should do this first.” 

“We need to eat,” Derek says, and somehow Stiles finds himself picking his discarded clothing up off the floor and trailing Derek down to the kitchen in last night’s clothes. 

“I’m not doing any kind of walk,” Stiles decides out loud. Derek looks blank. “You’re driving me home,” Stiles tells him. “And walking me to the door.” 

“Oh,” Derek says, surprised again. He smiles. “Marmalade?” 

Most of the food Derek owns is gone by the time he drops Stiles home. Stiles wants to stick around, but Derek is kind of insistent about him needing to call Scott this morning. 

Derek walks him to the door, but only after Stiles walks around to his side of the car and wrestles him out, because they talked about this, and Stiles is not willing to be embarrassed so Derek can look cool. It’s already embarrassing enough that he’s pretty sure half his street is witnessing this. 

When they get to the door, Stiles pulls him down for a goodbye kiss, and that feels familiar, but then Stiles hops up on the step for a better angle and forgets about it. 

His dad opens the door just as Derek is pushing his hand underneath Stiles’ jacket. 

“Nothing!” Derek blurts out. 

“So I see,” Stiles’ dad says, with pointed looks at Derek’s concealed hand, his wet, red mouth, and Stiles would be distracted by all that if this weren’t _quite_ so embarrassing. Humiliating, even. 

“Dammit!” Stiles says, detaching Derek from his person. “Not the plan!” 

“I’m not thrilled either, kiddo,” his dad says, hauling him inside the door. 

“Goodbye,” Derek says robotically. “Just bringing home to go for goodbye.” 

“Your chip is broken,” Stiles says, and decides to go for broke, because there’s no way this can get any worse. “Don’t do anything with that, I’ll swing by later and fix you right up.” 

“Come later,” Derek says, and Stiles is torn between laughing and diving behind the coat-tree for protection from the imminent nuclear fallout, yet still somehow genuinely curious to know what mess of horribleness is going to come out next, but his dad makes a face at Derek that Stiles is not willing to acknowledge, and shuts the door in his flushed face. 

Which is probably for the best.


End file.
